Frankincense and Myrrh
by Eglentyne
Summary: Ciel receives a massage and thing happen. Smut written in first person present tense because I do what I want. 90% serious. Rated M for that classic Sebaciel flavor that never gets boring.


It was after my bath Sebastian suggests a massage, and don't think such a thing doesn't sound tempting. He had blended a scented oil just for me because it is his habit to cater to whatever inclinations I might have. I never ask for such things, but he does them . I acquiesce with a curt nod and lie on the bed, the duvet and linens pulled back at my feet.

The room is cold and I feel chill bumps rise on my arms. It might not be from the chill air, but rather from him standing next to me as I lie face down on the edge of the mattress. He had not put his coat back on, shirt sleeves still rolled up, and his hands... He warms the oil in his naked hands, with black nails and that infernal seal staining the left one like ink that will never wash out. The smell of it is this blossoming perfume and next thing I know they are sprawled on my back, large and hot.

It is sweet, powdery, an opium den without the opium, and enchanting like his breath without that condescending smirk. He works the oil into my shoulders, pulling and kneading like a cat, the pads of his fingers pressing into spaces I never knew held strain. I moan with relief as tension peaks and subsides. He knows how to expend the precise amount of pressure, just bordering on unbearable. The heat of the oil seems to penetrate the muscles underneath and I feel like a puddle. My arms begin to tingle, and he chases the sensation, past my elbows, and he shakes out the last of it from my twitching fingers. His whole hand can fit around my forearm. I can't raise them after he does this. My left arm hangs off the bed and I graze against the wool of his trousers.

He spreads more oil over my back and the heat swells. He sweeps along the spine in search for the knots and he finds them. His grip on my muscles feels like he's plucking them apart within me. Back and forth, pushing me into the bed and I'm so pliant underneath the power of those hands. At the base of my spine fingers wrap around my waist, lifting, squeezing. He hits that clump of nerves in the small of my back and my voice cracks.

I could have been satisfied with just this and no more. More oil, and then his hands roam further, on my rear, his naked hands kneading into me and he says nothing. I say nothing because I don't want to acknowledge how strange it is. If I did, I would be admitting that it makes me feel certain things I would rather not feel with him. Truth of it is it feels too good to tell him to stop.

When he clamps around my thighs underneath the mounds of my behind it feels even better. Down, and down they travel, behind my knees and to my calves. With each push and pull I deliver a grunt as if on cue. Then I feel some new sensation, an acute pressure on my lower left calf and I feel such a jolt spin up to vibrate at the base of me. He pushes a nerve and I can't keep myself from tensing. He delivers the pressure higher on my leg, as if he can trace the path of this sensation. When he hits it again in the back of my knee my toes curl, at my thigh and my whole leg jerks, then into the flesh of my rear and I am writhing. As he delivers the same treatment along my other leg I realize he's digging his elbow into these spots, the full force of his powerful arms concentrating into my flesh at these single points.

And some tingling is concentrating at another point of me, the one that's pressed into the mattress. While every other part of me feels wilting and pliant, this one is growing to the opposite. He's going to notice.

His hands rush down my thighs as if to pull the last of the tension from my legs and toss it away. He lifts one of my feet and I find I can't pull it from his grasp because my muscles aren't working the way they should. He dresses my foot with oil, working patterns into the arch of it. I feel every spot his fingers prod, flexing every joint and I can't stop the sharp intake of my breath because each sensation is shooting to the core of me. He works between each toe and I squeeze my eyes. Despite the impulse to pull my foot away it feels too good.

By the time he delivers the same treatment to my other foot I'm digging my hips into the mattress. My prick feels hard and cumbersome, and how I wish to ease that tension. Was this his intention from the beginning? Surely he can hear how my moans have taken on some different timbre. My face feels hot from the shame of it.

He lays down my foot and I'm resting between some strange state of relaxation and arousal. Hands that were forceful a moment before are gentle as he turns me over on the bed. I refuse to open my eyes. I'm beyond attempting to hide the erection between my legs that are too relaxed to clamp shut. I half-wish for him to leave me so I can fix this predicament on my own, but I don't think I could lift my arms to accomplish such a simple act if I wanted to.

The mattress descends as it bears weight at my feet. He's sitting on my bed and I give a small thought of irritation. I didn't give him permission to sit on my bed. He's sitting with my legs over the wool of his thighs and I know my arousal is in plain view of him. I still refuse to look at him.

Those hands stroke along my chest, down my sides, over my hips. Is he still giving me a massage? It feels more caressing but no less pleasurable. I curl my legs around for my feet to rest where he sits on the bed and I hear the smallest sigh. His touch turns to the inner sides of my thighs I reason, no, this is no longer a massage.

But perhaps it is, because he begins to knead the flesh there maddeningly close to the base of me, along the pubis and around. Every touch I feel in my groin even if he has not touched that stiff length. When fingers massage at the sack between my legs it doesn't even feel vulgar, just deliberate and methodical. Fingers explore lower, to spaces I never think to touch but every brush of his fingers is shooting through me and I can't stop moaning.

He prods at the root of me, a return to my backside but the touch is nothing like before. He can't have access to the place with my current position. Without any real thought to the matter I lift my legs to rest them on his shoulders. Where did I find the strength to manage that? How did his fingers become so slick all of a sudden? He kneads at this space between my cheeks, around and around. I feel myself clenching for him to explore deeper because there is this one spot that needs his attention.

When he presses at the hole it feels like the same pressure all over again, and I jerk. When he does it again it feels deeper. I realize that he is stroking the inside of it. He had massaged a finger inside of me. It exits and I feel its absence. I constrict in response. He pushes in once more and I hear my groan is louder, throatier. Still, he says nothing. He works it deeper, and I feel such fullness. It is then that the curious sensation hits me, like he's plucked a nerve from the inside. I feel it wrench at my cock and I yelp.

He noticed this change, how I am now rocking my hips into his intrusion and he pushes against that place again, and again, and oh my God again. It feels as a ball of uncomfortable pleasure that is rolling to become larger within me. He rests his other hand on my belly and pushes down. Relenting to this assault is maddening. My prick is on fire and he hasn't even touched it. At the same time I feel like he has, only from the other side and I never thought such a thing could be possible. If he could just move that hand lower… but he won't. He continues to stroke the inside of me and it hurts to not crest over and find relief. My legs quiver as he pushes me to a state of desperation. All he wants is for me to give the order.

"Sebastian, touch it." And when he does it feels like some arc of electricity has been grounded. His hand fists around the base of it to prevent me from climax. "I want your mouth on me," I hear myself say. Oh shit, where did that come from? Feeling him shift his position on the bed, my legs bending forward, his obliging seems all too eager. His inhales are deep and his breath scalding. Lips meet the head and I'm lifting with legs over his back yes, yes... When he takes it all into those jowls I hear myself issue this quaking roar for I'm just about to broach the edge of this damned climax.

His lips slide down to meet his grip on me and pull, tongue lapping underneath, all the while the plucking assault within rages. He scrapes a rhythm over me to push and pull, lifting and forward and back. With each beat I skim to the edge until I can't hold it, I can't... The spasm tears through me, down my legs and my toes push into his back. Each wave punches from me a throaty wail. He continues that internal stroking with each spasm and the pressure in my cock bursts. I've spent myself in his mouth. Under my gasping I hear him moan in approval, the only sound I've heard from him since this insanity began.

Wet lips and devilish tongue suck and pull and he won't allow the intensity of it to subside. Just when I would have been satisfied he speeds the intrusion, his mouth rolls me over this tidal wave once more. Blazing nerves concentrate at a single point, all of me projecting into that hungry, lapping maw when I have nothing more to give. I can't control my bucking into his face, or my grip in his hair, or how my breath has lost me, or the tears pricking in my clenched eyes.

He slows, and my legs won't stop trembling. He runs his fingers over my sensitive erection and I give one last lazy buck as his fingers escape me. Back no longer arching, I bury the side of my face into the pillows. The idea of moving is a distant possibility. I feel the weight shift as he withdraws himself from between my legs and off the bed.

Something caresses the corner of my lips, and I smell frankincense, and myrrh, and musk, and ash, and lush earth. I find some paltry will to turn my head to feel the fullness of those most tender lips. Traces of me linger in his parted mouth. I match the caress and feel his sigh brush down my throat. My head feels dizzy and my body gives one last weak tremor. I peek for a moment to see his eyes closed, long eyelashes casting shadow on that pale cheek. When he pulls away my eyelids droop once more. I wish I had the strength to pull him back to me. I wish I had met his gaze.

The covers enfold me, under my chin. The light I can see from behind my eyelids melts away. "Good night, young master," he whispers against my ear. I do not hear the clacking of his shoes, but I do hear the click of the door knob and I plummet from consciousness. **  
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 **Author's Note:** When I write Sebastian he is rather florid with his language. He likes to hint and not be so direct. Ciel has this clipped speech pattern to him. He's a very no-nonsense kid. So it was sort of strange when I wrote this at first and I was like, "This doesn't sound much like him." I had to pare down my complex sentence structures, pick words that were impactful but brief.

Sebastian is very detached from this one, and I feel like his greatest sense of presence is at the very end. That was kind of the point.

In case you're wondering, "90% serious" is my way of saying this is largely based on personal events. The other 10% was the Sebaciel factor.

Leave a review, I love those. Thank you for reading. Love to all my readers. *kiss*


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